


The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dancing, Historical, London Blitz, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-09
Updated: 2004-08-09
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:20:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Devil has all the best tunes. (London, 1940)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

It took no small number of drinks for Aziraphale to entertain the idea of dancing.  
  
Simply put, moving his legs to the tempo of any sort of human music had never been a top priority for him. If prodded sufficiently, he was always the first to admit that the gavotte had been a bit of a disappointment, especially in its hasty retreat into obscurity. The angel liked to at least _appear_ cautious in the investment [1] of his time. Attempting a new dance so soon afterwards seemed somewhat excessive, and there were so many other things to worry about.  
  
There was, of course, the matter of offering some portion of his wiles to the Arrangement, a responsibility that had been rather stretched by the war. It also required a reasonable amount of concentration to keep his shop safe from the influences of bombs and rubble, as well as the earnest charm of spendthrifts.  
  
He reasoned that it was only natural to be less than enthused by modern trends. Indeed, how could one possibly be expected to keep track of them all? The angel said as much when Crowley snaked his arm about his waist, leading him through the damp, darkened street and up the narrow staircase into his digs.  
  
Crowley procured an instructional book on swing dancing [2] for this very occasion, which seemed to Aziraphale to be quite a thoughtful touch.  
  
He also unscrewed a bottle of whisky.  
  
Even as Crowley described the outrageous sequence of the steps with the book’s dotted ink drawings held occasionally aloft, his shadow thrown into motion and lost just as easily against the blackout curtain, the angel felt his inhibitions slipping.  
  
As the midnight rain pounded against the windowpanes, Aziraphale threw back another double. He took down an immaculately preserved volume [3] at random from the shelf and softly turned the pages over with the tips of his trembling fingers, his eyes blind to the text, just as he fought to ignore the triumph that spread in a languid curve across Crowley’s face. Crowley pushed away the scarlet throw rug, exposing the hard planks of wood beneath. They gleamed in the scattered light, seeming to be an extension of his widening grin.  
  
The angel’s cheeks flushed in reply.  
  
Crowley waved intently at the phonograph. As the crank turned, the warmth of sound seeped into the room and the array of trumpets and clarinets, upright base and piano that followed brought with them more brilliance than the hour was accustomed to.  
  
Aziraphale felt his toe begin to tap, quite of its own will and recognizably out of time. “I say,” he mumbled, tilting his head as though concentrating on a distant sound. As he spoke, his tongue felt like an anchor within his mouth. “Goodness, could that be the air raid siren? I think it is.” He nodded, not meeting Crowley’s eye. “We probably ought to...”  
  
“Yes?” Crowley arched a brow.  
  
Aziraphale swallowed, tugging anxiously at his cuffs.  
  
The record crackled and gasped as Crowley rolled his sleeves to his elbows and loosened the dark silk at his neck, stepping forward and gingerly stripping the empty glass from Aziraphale’s hand, only to replace it with the firmness his own grip. He gave the angel’s wrist an encouraging tug. “You were saying?”  
  
Aziraphale shook his head.  
  
And then they were dancing. Or, more accurately, Crowley was dancing and, with a considerable amount of relief, the angel allowed himself to be pulled along.  
  
Aziraphale stealthily chewed at his lip, his brow knit as he commanded his feet not to stumble out from beneath him as they were wont to do. “It’s not as easy as you make--”  
  
“Angel?”  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“Pay attention. One, two, and left -- no, _left_ ,” Crowley directed, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand.   
  
“Left?”  
  
“That’s right.”  
  
“Good grief,” Aziraphale managed, looking away from the polished expanse of the floor.  
  
Crowley’s lips curled into a smirk as he pulled Aziraphale closer. The angel felt the other’s hand as it brushed across the light folds of his jacket and settled firmly at the small of his back.  
  
“It’s a great success in America, you know,” Crowley gibed.  
  
“Ah. And you’re sure that you’ve not had a hand in it?”  
  
“Sure, I’m sure,” Crowley said, his voice almost wistful and laced by a faint hiss. His eyes widened with what was certainly pride.  
  
“And the instructional book?”  
  
Crowley chuckled.  
  
“Why am I not surprised?” Aziraphale laughed shortly, dropping his gaze. His steps were consistently hesitant, lingering a beat behind Crowley’s own as he struggled to maintain his bearings. “In fact,” he continued gravely, “it’s quite possibly the most ridiculous excuse for a--”  
  
“Dip.”  
  
Aziraphale frowned, quickly glancing up. “I beg your pardon?”  
  
“ _Dip_.”  
  
Aziraphale winced as he was swiftly lowered over the floor, his back arching across Crowley’s arm. “You’re certain that this is...” he said through gritted teeth, nervously moving his shoulders. “Well... fair?”  
  
“If you writhe like that,” Crowley scoffed, pointedly ignoring the plea of Aziraphale’s eyes as he leaned forward, “I’ll drop you.”  
  
“I’m doing my best.”  
  
Crowley grinned. “Just wait until you see the Watusi.”  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
Aziraphale imagined that there was a hint of remorse in Crowley’s voice. “Oh, about twenty years away, yet.”  
  
“The name has me stricken, I daresay if this is any indication...”  
  
“You’ve no idea,” he said between breaths.  
  
At last the room was still once more as the recording ended and Aziraphale shifted his weight upon Crowley’s arm to stand. He blinked, straining to focus his gaze against the fractured light and the dogged spinning of his head. “My dear?” he asked, reaching forward and brushing a stray lock of hair from the other’s temple.  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“May I tell you something?”  
  
Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “Sure.”  
  
“You’re standing on my foot.”  
  
“Right, then.” Crowley nodded slyly, only stepping away to reach for the bottle.  
  
Aziraphale stuffed his hands into his pockets, eyeing the stack of dance records with suspicion. “I’ll have another, if you don’t mind.”  
  
Crowley smiled.  
  
\------------------  
  
[1] He found that having a balanced portfolio was quite advantageous and an obvious key to success in this matter. Crowley had lately been advising him of Swiss accounts, though he as of yet had not been sold on the idea.  
  
[2] _The Swinger’s Grimoire: Taunt, Tilt, Whirl, and Slither Your Way through Anything in Twenty-three Steps or Less_  
  
[3] _The Complete Poems of John Wilmot_


End file.
